


Kiss Me

by letyourdorkout



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letyourdorkout/pseuds/letyourdorkout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fill for this prompt over the rq_meme. In order to raise money for the bus to Sectionals/Regionals/Nationals... whatever, Rachel comes up with the brilliant idea for them to set up a kissing booth in order to raise the money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me

As soon as Rachel suggests it, Quinn—along with the rest of Glee Club—knows that it’ll be the death of her.   
  
Santana’s the first one to disagree, like she always does whenever Rachel opens her mouth to speak. Though this time, she finds the idea itself more than ridiculous, it’s  _literally_ making her want to hit something. “No way in hell Man-hands. I’m not going to do that.”   
  
Rachel merely huffs and rolls her eyes. “Well, do you have something more brilliant in mind Santana? Anything at all?” She retorts, arms folding squarely above her chest; continues smugly moments after when Santana just glares at her in response. “I thought so.”   
  
“I don’t mind it,” Puck pitches in with a shrug. “I get paid to kiss. Seriously, who gets luckier than that?” He bumps fists with Finn, who is making small noises of agreement beside him.   
  
“Thank you Noah for siding with me.” Rachel turns and looks at him approvingly, but he so much acknowledges her with a lazy snort and a flirty wink. “Although, I’m sorry to say, the proceeds will not be for our own personal gains.”    
  
“Now, if you can all return your attention back to my presentation.” She hits the remote she’s holding and the current slide changes. “It’s to everyone’s common knowledge that the quickest thing to sell to hormone-driven high school teenagers is  _sex_ , as once proven by the audience’s reception during our performance of Push It and Toxic; and kissing,” She presses the button again, her already triumphant smile stretching wider into a grin, “is an essential part of the aforementioned activity. Therefore, we can safely say that the idea is as good as selling sex without anyone of us having to go through the entire process.”   
  
“Okay. I love sex but,” An unimpressed look settles firmly on Santana’s face, “don’t even think for a second that I’m letting myself be dragged into this.” She raises a finger in gesture, jiggling it slowly for Rachel to see how much she’s already hating this. “There’s  _no_ way. No. Freaking. Way.”   
  
“Nationals is in just a few weeks. And we are still in need of quite a huge amount of money to be able to provide each and everyone a new set of costumes,” Rachel reasons out even further. “And clearly, no one here wants to wear a repeat of last year’s right? Not only would it not make a good impression to the judges, but it will also make us look foolish and ludicrous in front of the entire audience.”   
  
“You’re suggesting a kissing booth,” Mercedes sputters in disbelief, “a  _kissing_ booth Rachel.”   
  
“According to my calculations Mercedes, if this project turns successful—which I’m most certain it will be—the money we would be able to come up with should be enough to cover everything including the bus fee.”   
  
“Like anyone’s ever going to kiss you Berry,” Santana mocks from somewhere in the background, at the same time Mercedes shrieks. “But  _it’s_ a kissing booth!”   
  
It doesn’t take long before everyone’s protests are filling the choir room, even if the idea’s honestly for the best intentions, and for the club’s sake in terms of the upcoming competition.  _But_  it’s a kissing booth as Mercedes and Santana would so like to put it,  _and_ they’re members of Glee Club, which pretty much explains everything else.   
  
Everyone’s practically shouting, and Quinn—newly reinstated Cheerio captain and HBIC—is already having a horrible day to even put up with all the arguing. “Will all of you just shut up?” She yells at the top of her voice, and it bounces all over the room as soon as the rest of them abruptly cease talking.   
  
“Thank you Quinn.” Rachel offers her a timid smile right after. “As I was saying—“   
  
“I didn’t do it for you Berry,” cuts Quinn sharply. She slams the cover of her notebook close, smiling inwardly at the sight of Rachel flinching. “And I’m not yet done.”   
  
“But I’m not either.”   
  
“Well I don’t care,” She bites back with a certain gruff. “And turn that thing off. It’s making my headache worse.” Rachel’s Powerpoint is all neon and bright-y, and the colors she’s seeing on the screen of Rachel’s bedazzled laptop is making her feel nauseous. (And that’s not just because the colors themselves are putting her off.)   
  
Rachel, in turn, holds firmly at the remote lying in her hand. “I am only halfway through my presentation Quinn. I absolutely cannot stop there.”   
  
“Turn it off Berry,” Quinn hisses through gritted teeth, her voice dropping dangerously low.   
  
“I’m not going to.”   
  
“I said turn it off!”   
  
Rachel just squares her shoulders in response, looking undeterred by  _anything_ ; and Quinn honestly feels like she’s going to explode because of her headache, and Rachel Berry and her always resolute attitude. “Turn the  _damn_ thing off and we’ll do that crazy idea of yours!”   
  
“What?” Santana yells. Beside her, Quinn just rubs soothing fingers against her temple. “Are you even being serious right now?”   
  
Mercedes and Tina have also started to complain, though Santana’s outrunning them with the rate she’s spewing words out of her mouth. But Rachel’s beating  _them all_  with her big, alien—almost archaic—words and endless-like sentences.   
  
On the top bench, the boys are looking more bored than usual, and Puck’s seriously considering the idea of ditching Glee if not for the booth keeping his interest. Finn, after months of his break up with Rachel, pretty much goes everywhere Puck does, which explains why he’s still obediently sitting in his place.   
  
“Maybe it isn’t as bad as we think it is. Right Quinn?” says Sam. And, well, he’s still pining for Quinn’s attention, so he’s trying to sit through the whole argument and is  _always_ picking Quinn’s side.    
  
Quinn just rolls her eyes at this and casts her gaze at Brittany’s direction. She’s sitting beside Artie now since she can’t sit on his lap anymore, not after the wheelchair’s been dismissed out of Artie’s life. (He hopes it’s permanent, the wheelchair being gone that is, and, yes, well, Brittany too. Sort of.)   
  
“Do you really think I’m just gonna sit here and let  _Smurfette_ do what she wants? How do you think Coach Sylvester will react if she finds out about this?” Santana prattles on, not allowing anyone to interrupt. “And where the hell is Mr. Schuester?”   
  
“Mr. Schuester—“ Rachel comes off faint at first, then clears her throat; tries again, more unflinchingly this time. “Mr. Schuester is on a very important trip right now. He is heading to a life changing seminar that may greatly help in boosting his career both as a teacher and as a vocal coach.”   
  
Mercedes gasps in horror, mouth hanging agape. “You sent Mr. Schuester away! Just like what you did to that Sunshine kid!”   
  
“I most certainly did not send him to a crack house!”   
  
“You had this all planned, didn’t you?” Santana jumps in, eyes narrowing into thin slits. “From the start, you had this all planned.”   
  
“Well if you all make an effort to  _actually_ pay attention to my presentation,” Rachel huffs out loud as she answers. “You would know that I made one of my dads offer Mr. Schue a seminar he wouldn’t be able to resist, because if he was here, he certainly would not approve of this.”   
  
“Nobody’s approving anything RuPaul!”   
  
The seemingly harmless discussion almost turns into a riot from there. (But they’re  _the_ Glee Club. Nothing—no one is docile. It shouldn’t be surprising.)   
  
***   
  
At some point, it all becomes too much for Quinn, the voices she’s hearing turning into loud buzzes and she can’t tune them out. And just—she just really, really wants all of this to be over so she can go home and rest. “I said shut the hell up!” She bellows,  _again_ , so loud that even Santana flinches and seems to have nothing to say for herself this time. “All of you! And turn your laptop off Berry!”   
  
Rachel grumbles under her breath for a moment, but does what she’s told anyways. She begrudgingly closes her laptop and goes back to rolling her eyes over and over at Quinn. (And at everyone actually.)   
  
“Look,” Quinn starts to say, knows that her temper will be running out anytime soon. “Does anyone of you have any better ideas?” She turns her head and begins calling the girls out one by one. “Mercedes?”   
  
“Baking,” Mercedes shrugs, “or let’s sell Tater tots instead.”   
  
“We’ve done baking before. We probably shouldn’t do that again.”   
  
“Tots then, it is.”   
  
“Can’t,” Quinn shakes her head. “Coach Sue had them banned remember?”   
  
Mercedes lets out a strained sigh as she recalls  _that_ particularly horrid day. “I guess I’m all out.”   
  
“Tina?”   
  
Tina looks at Mike from the corner of her eye before she speaks. “Salad, with no chicken feet in it.”   
  
“What?” Quinn’s forehead scrunches in confusion. “Salad with what?”   
  
“N-nothing,” Tina stammers, because honestly, Quinn can be scary without her trying. “I mean, Mike can offer dance lessons.”   
  
“I’m afraid that will take too much time Tina.” It’s Rachel who answers. “We may not be able to meet the deadline.”   
  
As much as Quinn  _doesn’t_ want to admit it, Rachel’s got quite a point. But that doesn’t mean either that she has to acknowledge the fact that Rachel  _is_ right. So she turns to Brittany instead. “B? Artie?”   
  
A blank stare settles in Brittany’s eyes at first, but they sparkle not long after, and she’s saying excitedly, “There’s this one awesome carnival I’ve been to. And I played the ring toss game with S—“ She pauses when she realizes what she’s about to say, and shakes her head; quickly shoots Artie an apologetic smile. “I mean, we can do that. It’s fun!”   
  
Quinn doesn’t really have to guess  _who_ took Brittany to whichever carnival she’s talking about, and judging by the way Santana tenses up beside her (especially when Artie places his hand comfortingly on Brittany’s knee), it merely proves her intuition. “Actually Brit that’s a good idea but—“   
  
“Excuse me?” Rachel interjects, as less rude as she can manage. “Did I hear you right? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but, do you honestly think that a carnival game is a better idea than what I have proposed?”   
  
“I wasn’t finished talking. Can’t you just shut up for a minute?” Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration, because she knows the answer to that anyways.   
  
“We could do the duck pond game if you don’t like the ring toss Rachel.”   
  
Brittany’s face falls, and Quinn has to do everything in her power to stop Santana from possibly throwing a shoe at Rachel’s face. Rachel though seems to notice and mumbles a soft apology to Brittany for suddenly being so insolent, though she hadn’t really meant to.   
  
“Look, Glee’s almost over,” Sam cuts in, and flashes Quinn his most charming smile. “Maybe we could decide tomorrow. I think Quinn really needs to go home and rest.”   
  
“No,” Quinn snaps at him. “I’m not going through this again tomorrow. We decide now.”   
  
“Besides, the school fair is tomorrow.”   
  
“I know that Berry.”   
  
“Okay then. I was just trying to help.” He sinks back to his seat in disappointment, and opts to shut his mouth for the remaining fifteen minutes.   
  
“It seems like no one aside from me has managed to come up with a better idea,” Rachel states complacently; doesn’t fight the triumphant grin she feels breaking out.   
  
Quinn groans in response, but it’s as good as an agreement that she can give, because well,  _it’s_  Rachel Berry she’s up with here. “You two,” She points to Puck and Finn. “Get the booth set up first thing tomorrow. And you—“   
  
“Actually Quinn—“ Rachel breaks her off,  _again_ .   
  
She’s almost growling when she asks, “What now?”   
  
“I already have the roles planned out for everyone,” Rachel continues, looking completely unperturbed of the way Quinn’s glowering straight at her. She pulls her notebook out of her bag and starts flipping through the pages, until she stops at the one she’s looking for in particular. “But you were right though. Puck and Finn are in charge of setting up the booth as well. Artie is the one responsible for holding the cash box. And the rest of us, even those who currently are in a committed relationship right now, will be in charge of the duty of providing the  _service_ .”   
  
Quinn’s face twists violently at Rachel’s words, because this thing they’re about to do? It honestly doesn’t sound anywhere near pleasant to her ears. But the throbbing ache inside her head reminds her of why she’s doing this in the first place. “Fine. It’s settled then. Can we go now?” She watches as Rachel nods, and doesn’t even bother to wait for her to finish her goodbye speech slash pep talk for tomorrow’s activity; rushes out of the choir room without another word.   
  
***   
  
The day already looks like it’s going to suck.   
  
It starts with the booth first. Apparently, Finn and Puck aren’t handymen, like,  _at all_ , and really, Finn should just stick with football and Puck with his so called pool cleaning duties. The whole thing looks shabby—a close resemblance to the  _Leaning tower of Pisa_ —and the tent seems like it’s going to fall off any minute.   
  
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn exhales disbelief, the moment she arrives with Santana in tow, and sees the poor state of their supposed to be booth.   
  
“No shit,” Santana agrees.   
  
Finn and Puck, they’re bumping fists and clapping each other’s shoulders cockily while exchanging stupid noises of praise, as if they’ve made a masterpiece out of something rather than a poor attempt of a fair booth.   
  
Rachel doesn’t seem impressed either when she gets there, but she catches sight of the students rushing out of the double doors, so she saves the long speech she’s prepared inside her head; mentally makes a note to berate the two boys and give them a lecture about proper tent building in the afternoon.   
  
***   
  
The whole tent does fall after all, even before anyone could settle in completely; and both Quinn and Santana feel overwhelmingly obliged to slap Finn and Puck at the back of their heads for being the morons—as Santana calls them—that they are.   
  
Luckily, Mike’s a freaking boy scout who has actual experience in outdoor activities such as this, that he’s able to set it up way quicker and sturdier than the other two have had. (Tina’s got this love struck look on her face the entire time she watches Mike work his way around.)   
  
Rachel can only shake her head in dismay. They’re already way behind their schedule.   
  
***   
  
The seating arrangement goes like this:   
  
Rachel is on the far right of the long table, followed by Sam, who more like wormed his way in between for the chance to be seated next to Quinn. Santana’s beside her, since Santana obviously has no choice but to sit there, with Finn next in line and of course Puck. Mercedes, Tina and Mike are huddled close to each other respectively, while Brittany ends the line, sitting on the far left so she could be close to Artie.   
  
It’s all good, Rachel thinks, since no one’s trying to rip someone else’s throat so far.   
  
***   
  
Ms. Pillsbury—or rather Mrs. Howell—drops by a few minutes before the fair officially starts.   
  
“I think  _these_ would help in keeping your hygiene intact while you’re doing your activity,” She says as she carefully lays the box she’s carrying on top of the table. She opens it up before anyone could ask what  _these_ actually are, and starts handing sanitizers, paper towels, sugar-free bubble gums, mouthwashes and everything else sanitary that they can think of. “Remember, it won’t hurt to practice proper hygiene.”   
  
She waves them goodbye and leaves them with a faint ‘good luck’.   
  
***   
  
Surprisingly, there’s already a line forming outside their booth even before Principal Figgins is finished with his opening remarks.   
  
Rachel knows that she should be pleased, because finally,  _finally_ , she’s right about this, which then gives her something to rub onto everyone’s faces and perhaps brag about for days.  _But_ she isn’t, because even if the queue is long, it only is for their popular members: Finn, Puck, Santana, Brittany, Sam and Quinn.   
  
Quinn’s is the longest and even Santana’s sulking about that fact. But she seems to be horrified of the idea of kissing that much number of people; the look settling on her face is enough for Rachel to get her by and  _actually_ do this kissing booth thing without having to feel embarrassed about her line being empty.   
  
She flips her hair off her shoulders and plasters her  _showmance_ smile.   
  
***   
  
Principal Figgins’ ‘have a good day’ blasts through the speakers, and it’s like the only thing everyone’s been waiting for before their whole booth starts buzzing with students falling in line and waiting for what may or may not be  _the kiss of their lifetime_ .   
  
Quinn sucks in a lungful of air, filling her chest; fakes a cheerful smile when her first five dollars is handed to her.   
  
***   
  
Of course, her  _first kiss_  would be Jacob Ben Israel. Of freaking course.   
  
She grimaces when she sees him bouncing towards her, like, literally, and he’s sort of shaking for reasons Rachel doesn’t even want to know about. He’s carrying his wallet with him in one hand, and what looks like all sorts of cameras he has in his collection in the other; and Rachel, for once, wants to disappear or maybe be swallowed by the ground just because.   
  
“Hi Rachel. How much is it for a kiss?” He greets, voice a bit shaky, obviously with a certain  _need_ .   
  
“Uhm,” Rachel eyes his wallet first, and God, it’s thick. She can only hope it’s filled with papers and tickets and all sorts of other things boys put in their wallets, and  _not_ money. “It’s five dollars.”   
  
Jacob laughs mostly to himself, looking  _almost_ exuberant about what he knows is bound to happen. “I withdrew all the money in my bank account when I heard about Glee Club’s participation in the school fair.” He frantically drops all his cameras on the table and leans over to her, practically invading her personal space. “I have three thousand dollars in there, and I’m going to spend it all to you.”   
  
Rachel blanches, and instinctively inclines herself as farthest as her position can allow, even if she can feel her chair dangerously tilting backwards. She swallows visibly as she tries to meet Jacob’s hungry look with a polite smile. “Actually Jacob,” She says. He beams at her in response upon hearing her call him by his first name. “There are a few rules for this particular activity.”   
  
Quinn’s on her way to her fifth kiss when she hears it. She gestures a hand towards the over-eager football jock in front of her, and turns to ask. “There are? Why didn’t I know about that?”   
  
“I forgot to announce it yesterday,” Rachel answers, shooting a pleading look at Quinn to play along. It will probably be for the benefit of everyone anyways. “It must have slipped my mind, with all the planning we had done.”   
  
“And what are those?”   
  
“First,” She starts, holding her finger in the air to tick the rules. “They can only buy a kiss once, two at the most. Second, this activity is supposed to be all innocent so no tongue is allowed, unless the _provider_ permits it.”   
  
Quinn raises her eyebrow at this, but lets her continue.   
  
“Third, each kiss should only last for ten seconds. No more than that.”   
  
“What if I’m willing to pay more?” Jacob tries to insist. “I’ll pay you one thousand dollars if it lasts more than ten seconds!”   
  
“ _We_ play by the rules Jacob,” Rachel states firmly. The offer is quite tempting, if she’d be honest,  _but_ this is Jacob Ben Israel, so—no, just no. “Are we clear about that?”   
  
If Quinn’s feeling a bit mean (because really, the thousand dollar offer could solve their problem in an instant), it disappears altogether the moment she chances a glance at the jock before her, as she sees him practically drooling all over the table.   
  
“Got that,” She replies instead; can’t actually believe that she’s agreeing with Rachel about something for what seems like the first time ever.   
  
Rachel exhales the breath she’s holding in. The way that Jacob Ben Israel’s face falls feels like relief enough.   
  
***   
  
He passes out after the first kiss, which is quite expected of him really. But Rachel can’t bring herself to care; instead thinks  _that_ she hasn’t rinsed and gargled that much in her entire sixteen years of existence. (She almost downs a whole bottle of mouthwash.)   
  
***   
  
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Mercedes grunts, fingers drumming impatiently against the table as she watches people come and go. “Tater tots, they were so much better.”   
  
Tina acknowledges the thought with a faint nod, but then, she’s got Mike so things are looking much brighter from her side.   
  
Five minutes and a couple of disgruntled snorts later, Mercedes is halfway through standing up and blowing the whole thing off, but she stops after she sees someone tower over her, and a ten dollar bill carefully being slid on the table.    
  
“Can I buy two please?”   
  
She sits back at once, lips curling up into a smirk as soon as she gets over her surprise and realizes who he is. “Anthony.”   
  
Anthony regards her with a shy smile in return. Okay, maybe, it’s not  _that_ bad.   
  
***   
  
Oddly though, there’s a school jock that falls in Rachel’s line.   
  
She thinks he’s someone who might be lost, because at this point, it’s hard to tell where Quinn and Santana’s lines start and where they end. People are sort of like, jumping from one queue to another, until they’ve kissed pretty much all of the Cheerios and the boys and can’t wait to take their second chance (if there still is).   
  
He’s scratching his head when he approaches her, his faint blush coaxing her to smile genuinely at him. “Hi there.”   
  
“Hi. Can I help you?” Rachel answers cheerfully. “Are you lost? Do you want to know where Quinn’s line ends? Because if you do, I don’t think I can help you with that, for I myself do not have the faintest idea who the last person is to fall in line.”   
  
He doesn’t seem to be fazed by her absolute love for words, as if he’s already expecting it or something. “No. Actually, I’m not lost,” He mumbles shyly and peers at her from under his lids.   
  
She doesn’t feign surprise when it registers to her what this  _could_ mean. “Oh,” She studies him closely, and recognizes him as one of the members of the McKinley High soccer team. “ _Oh_ .”   
  
His answering smile is warm and friendly, the kind of which is putting Rachel at ease, as odd as it would seem. “So how much for a kiss?”   
  
“Five bucks. And you can only have two at the most.”   
  
“I’d be lucky to have two.”   
  
***   
  
They’re both blushing when they part.    
  
He fumbles with his pockets for a second, and then pulls out a fifty dollar bill once he has managed to steady his shaking hand.   
  
“Thank you,” says Rachel when he gives her the money.   
  
“Keep everything.” He shakes his head at her and pushes her hand back after she tries to hand him his change. “It’s actually worth more than that, but, that’s all I’ve got here.”   
  
“Are you sure?”    
  
“Totally.”   
  
“Well, thank you very much Mr.?”   
  
“Charlie. You can call me Charlie.” He grins at her this time. “I guess I’ll see you around?”   
  
“I’ll see you around Charlie.” She waves at him before he turns around to leave.   
  
It isn’t the best kiss of Rachel’s life, but she can’t deny the fact that it probably has made it into her list of  _kisses I’ll remember for the rest of my life_ . (And to think she’s shared it with a not-so-random stranger.)   
  
***   
  
Her queue starts filling up a few minutes after he’s left.    
  
Almost the whole soccer team’s standing patiently in line now, and at first Rachel thinks Charlie’s just doing a good act by sending his teammates. But when she starts hearing ‘score’, ‘goal’ and ‘ _fucking_ ace’, she figures she  _might_ actually be doing something right. She  _is_  the talented Rachel Berry after all.   
  
She takes the next kiss with a confident smile.   
  
***   
  
The news spreads faster than wild fire, and before they know it, people are lining up for Rachel now.   
  
Santana can’t believe her eyes, because her line’s so close to running on empty and Quinn’s is halfway, and just—it’s  _Rachel Man-hands Berry_ . She can’t quite get what the commotion is all about.   
  
Puck doesn’t want to believe it either, but Finn’s not on his seat anymore and is acting like some sort of bouncer slash safety keeper; and he’s hovering nearby to make sure that nothing funny or something else happens. Artie has appeared on Rachel’s side as well to make his job of collecting easier.    
  
Puck  _doesn't_ want to believe, yet his queue is deserted when he takes a look, and a part of him is saying that Rachel’s actually good with those full lips. (Even if she  _does_ bite from time to time.) He groans as he runs a hand up and down his face, but joins Finn not long after in controlling the crowd. Who knows? He could get a free kiss along the way.   
  
Quinn’s reaction to it is simply an arched brow, because as much as she hates to admit it, she’s more than glad that she’s done with this.  _Berry’s idea_ , she thinks, is just so revolting.   
  
***   
  
Rachel’s exhausted by the time lunch break comes. Eventually, Finn and Puck have managed to disperse the crowd and have instructed them to come back an hour later. She can’t be anymore thankful to them both for doing so.    
  
Her lips are tingling from all the contact she’s made, and she winces when she feels its slightly swollen state under her fingertips. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to her anymore, and she doesn’t even want to think about what’s to come as soon as break is over. She can’t even find it in her to be all smug about this, because a part of it, a huge one actually, feels like torture somehow.   
  
She turns to Artie and asks, to somehow get her mind off things and maybe remind herself what she’s doing this for. “How much have we made so far?”   
  
Artie counts the last bill in his hand and answers giddily. “A whopping five hundred dollars. This is great, you guys!”   
  
Rachel, for her part, wants to ask if they can stop now, but then again, she knows that a little more extra money would be of big help—and she’d do anything for Glee Club to win the Nationals competition. (Not to mention the amount of affront she could possibly get since this is her idea in the first place.) So she excuses herself instead, at least to take a breather from all the unexpected turn of events this morning.   
  
She heads straight to the bathroom to check up on her lips and see for herself, because God, it genuinely feels like it’s bruising. Though she breathes out a quick sigh of relief upon seeing that they’re just a bit swollen, and nothing bad has happened, well at least  _not_ _yet_ . She can only hope that it stays that way till the end of the day.   
  
The soft click of the door as it opens and closes catches her attention. When she looks, she’s completely surprised to see Quinn standing by the doorway, fixing her with an inquisitive yet skeptical stare.   
  
“Hello Quinn,” She greets out of courtesy, well, manners rather. “Do you need something?”   
  
Quinn, in turn, just walks towards her without a word, stopping a few inches away.   
  
“Can I help you? Is something the matter?”   
  
She, again, wordlessly searches through the pockets of her letterman jacket; but holds her gaze at Rachel’s face, wearing the same exact expression.   
  
“Quinn? Are you alright? Do you—“ Rachel gets cut off by Quinn who’s grabbing her hand without warning and thrusting an almost crumpled five dollar bill into her open palm. “Quinn?” She asks, confused, her forehead furrowed deep.   
  
“I want to know what all the fuss is about,” Quinn finally speaks, but with a neutral, matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t get it.”   
  
“E-excuse me?” Rachel stutters, like  _actually_ stutters, which rarely happens, so Quinn revels inwardly at the fact that she’s reduced Rachel into  _this_ . “You what?”   
  
She rolls her eyes, sighs exasperatedly. “Come on Berry. I don’t have all the time in the world.”   
  
“Quinn, what on earth are you even talking—“   
  
“Too much talking.” She clucks her disapproval and breaks Rachel off again, but this time with her soft, warm lips; closes her eyes when she plunges in.   
  
***   
  
It’s done even before Rachel can fully absorb that it’s  _really_ happening, way before she can wrap her head around the idea completely; and she has to resist that sudden strong urge to pull Quinn closer again by the hem of her jacket, and press her lips against hers over and over.   
  
It’s quiet when they part, and not the kind of which Rachel has grown used to because it  _never_ is whenever Quinn is around. There’s something that flashes through Quinn’s eyes, but is gone all too quickly, so Rachel haven’t had any chance to discern what exactly  _it_ is.   
  
“I knew there’s nothing special about it,” Quinn says after a few beats, snorts out what she thinks is an overrated hype of  _everything_ .   
  
Rachel tries to form a witty come back or at least a snarky comment, but her brain doesn’t seem to be capable of forming  _any_ coherent thought beyond this point. So she stands openmouthed there instead, lips still tingling  _but_ she knows for sure that it isn’t about the amount of kisses she’s shared this morning anymore, but rather, s _omething else_  entirely different.   
  
“I don’t know why  _everyone’s_ lining up for you,” Quinn adds flatly, dragging the words in a somewhat disgusted manner. “Personally, I certainly won’t waste any of my time.”   
  
Rachel  _wants_ to point out that Quinn  _just_ did, even if it was out of curiosity, or because Quinn just loves to mock her and spite her, or something else (not that she’s thinking that there is actually some other reason); but she’s still frozen on her spot, can still smell Quinn’s scent, and taste her kiss, and feel her strong grip around her wrist.   
  
Quinn seems to realize it on her own though, that she’s probably proving herself wrong by spending one more minute on the same place where Rachel is. So she turns to leave, but not without another insult thrown at Rachel’s way.   
  
Rachel doesn’t respond in any kind, and this, perhaps, is the first time ever that she’s left completely dumbstruck and at a loss for words.   
  
***   
  
Sam’s playing with his Chapstick absentmindedly when she comes back, and really, he looks  _particularly_ sad about something but Rachel can’t bring herself to care or even ask, because God, her lips are still tingling as strongly as they have been after Quinn has pulled back from their kiss. And it’s the only thing occupying her mind right now, as much as she wants to stop thinking about it.   
  
“You probably should have this,” Sam calls out, breaking her thoughts; lets the tube roll towards Rachel’s hand. “You look like you could use it.”   
  
Rachel picks it up and examines it warily. Sam must’ve noticed, and he starts speaking in between small laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s new. I bought it for today, but it seems like I won’t need it after all.”   
  
“Thanks,” She croaks, clears her throat twice. But she makes a mistake of looking past him and she sees Quinn, lower lip caught in between her teeth while she sits idly in her place; and Rachel has to hold onto the tube tight, almost snapping it in half, just because.   
  
“Are you okay?” Sam asks, thankfully pulling her out of whatever kind of stupor she has abruptly slipped into. “You look tense.”   
  
Really, Sam is a nice guy, and she can’t help but feel bad for kissing Quinn—but then it’s Quinn who kissed her in the first place, and it meant nothing. Quinn surely has made that clear. Still—   
  
“Yeah,” She breathes out, blinking hard. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thank you.”   
  
Sam just regards her with a lopsided smile.   
  
***   
  
When the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, she tries not to look past Sam  _again_ ; tries to block Quinn from her vision, but she ultimately fails because she’s all she can see now.   
  
From the recent look of things, she may or may not be—to simply put it— _doomed_ .   
  
***   
  
Like as expected, the crowd grows even thicker when they begin gathering up again. Finn and Puck, and now Sam—after realizing that he won’t be getting any  _emptor_ anytime soon—serve as some kind of human barricade to keep things in order, and at least give Rachel the ample amount of space she needs to breathe.   
  
Mercedes has long given up. She has gone with Anthony to visit some other booths that aren’t as wild as theirs. While Tina has volunteered herself and Mike, and they’ve gone off to buy Rachel more bottled water. But that was half an hour ago.   
  
Quinn, well, she’s half amused by the whole turn of events, and surprisingly, not disappointed. (She herself is shocked by it.) But she’s quiet for the most part, secluded in her own thoughts as she watches the crowd a little absently, sighing from time to time. Sam thinks she’s bored, but Santana knows that there’s  _something_ _more_ .   
  
And Santana, she’s trailing her eyes on Brittany—after getting tired of watching Quinn and waiting for her to say  _something_ —as Brittany gets lost in the throngs of students. She’s scowling at the same time at the idea of her making such an effort to find Artie and like,  _reunite_ with him or something. (And yes, she knows she’s quite overreacting.)   
  
So when Brittany pops up in front her of out of nowhere, it catches her completely off guard. Her frown turns into one of confusion. “Brit?”   
  
Brittany plays with her knuckles first, eyes shifty. “I got lost.”   
  
“I gathered,” Santana replies with a resigned sigh. “You still probably are. Artie’s over there.” She cocks her head to point towards Artie’s direction, but almost springs into action when Brittany gets accidentally pushed hard by an over-excited, bravado-filled skater boy. “Hey watch it!”   
  
He freezes as soon as he meets Santana’s icy stare, backing away with a whimper. He must’ve known who she is because he doesn’t dare go anywhere near Brittany again, as well as those whom she deems is his group of friends. But then, who doesn’t know her anyways?   
  
Brittany’s straightening her uniform when she returns her attention back to her. “You know, you should really get out of there.”   
  
Brittany nods, in turn, then says, “Give me your hand.”   
  
Santana rolls her eyes, but she thinks it’s sort of an agreement so she sticks her hand out nonetheless, even if it seems that Brittany’s going to have to walk on top the table. “Come on then.”   
  
The grip that Brittany holds as she wraps her fingers around Santana’s wrist is almost painful, and Santana has to fight a wince. But she forgets all about it when a five dollar bill lands in her palm, accompanied by ‘you’re an idiot’ that Brittany says in the meanest, most furious tone of voice she can muster. (Which really isn’t that threatening, because Brittany is and will always be someone who is gentle no matter what.)   
  
Santana knows that she  _is_ most of the time, but this is the very first instance that Brittany has called her out for it. So naturally, she’d ask. “What? I don’t—what are you doing?”   
  
Brittany’s adding another bill on top of the first one. “I’m trying to help raise money.  _And_ you’re an idiot.”   
  
Santana can’t quite decipher the look on Brittany’s face, because she looks torn between so many things, and like, she wants to cry and stay mad at the same time. Mad at  _her_ to be exact, for a reason she hasn’t managed to figure out yet.   
  
“You owe me a kiss Santana.”   
  
She swallows deeply, because Brittany rarely does that, call her by her full first name that is; and the hard, peeved stare Brittany has in her eyes is admittedly quite unnerving. “I think two. You gave me ten bucks.”    
  
“Yeah. Whatever,” Brittany dismisses sharply. For a second, Santana thinks she’s  _actually_  rubbing off on her, but the moment passes when she sees a flash of concern settling in Brittany’s features; although it disappears afterwards and she’s back to frowning.   
  
Clearly, Brittany’s mad, for what reason? Santana still has no idea.   
  
***   
  
Her breath is shaky when she leans in, because it’s the first time she’d be kissing Brittany again, since _that_ day they fought and she completely lost it, lost  _her_ .   
  
It’s slow at first, tentative and languid; as if they’re trying to recall it from a distant memory because it’s not something they do on a regular basis anymore, and neither out of whim. (It never was for her, and boredom, she knows, was just  _always_ going to be an excuse.)   
  
It turns into something deeper later on—more confident—like they finally both know what they want, and  _Fuck Berry’s rules_  starts running inside her head. But something must’ve flickered inside Brittany’s mind, her kisses quickly turning needy and frustrated and  _something else_  Santana can’t quite put a finger on.    
  
And then she’s torn between wanting to stop Brittany or not, because this isn’t her, this isn’t the way Brittany kisses her as far as she can recall. Brittany’s always sweet, mindful, caring—practically all the good things and the good words she can think about. She  _wants_ them to stop, but it’s been too long and she’s suffered so many days and nights dreaming of this, just because she can’t accept the fact that she does need someone other than herself.   
  
A hard, painful bite breaks her in mid-thought, Brittany’s teeth sinking deep against the thin skin. She quickly pulls back and shuffles a few feet away from her, her thumb busy inspecting the wound. “Ow B. What was that for?”   
  
“You’re an idiot,” Brittany says for the third time. “I want to hate you because you’re an idiot.”    
  
But it’s the only time ever that it hits a nerve, because Santana knows that despite the fact that  _it’s_ true, she’s not going to do anything about it. Because it’s how she is, it’s how she works. And she knows that Brittany  _knows_ that. She’s honestly not sure what’s harder to bear: the fact that she still won’t have Brittany after this; or that she’s too damn stubborn to do anything about it, much less admit that it’s  _her_ who’s at fault.   
  
“Brit, I—we—“   
  
It’s as if it’s a lost cause—maybe even from the start, it already is. And Brittany, for her part, isn’t certain why she’s still doing this, so she says, “I need to go. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”   
  
Santana just watches her leave till she disappears from her sight, with the taste of rust and blood as the only reminders of  _everything_ .   
  
***   
  
Rachel ends the day with a deep sigh.   
  
She proceeds to the choir room alone, since everyone seems to have disappeared as soon as Coach Sylvester has yelled ‘scram’ through her megaphone. Artie just hands her the cash box and leaves at once, mumbling something about taking Brittany home because she’s not feeling well. While Finn, Puck and Sam take care of the stuff Mrs. Howell has given them, roughly shoving everything into the box it came with. Quinn is nowhere to be seen, and Santana, from the looks of it, has gone off with her.   
  
The halls of McKinley High are now empty as she walks, shoes squeaking against the newly waxed floor. The cash box jiggles on top of the bigger box she’s carrying when she nearly slips, but she’s  _the ever talented_ Rachel Berry, so she catches herself rather gracefully.   
  
The choir room is deserted once she arrives. She walks straight to the piano and puts everything down on top of it; starts counting the money and lists them accordingly to their respective denominations. It’s quiet for the most part, save for her pen scribbling against the sheet of her notebook and her soft humming.   
  
She’s not scared of ghosts or anything, doesn’t actually believe in them because she thinks it’s all a figment of one’s hyperactive imagination. But when the door shuts on its own, she nearly jumps out of her skin. She whips around, a palm tightly pressed open over her chest; feels her heart pounding wildly underneath.    
  
What she sees though, is nowhere near what she’s expecting.   
  
***   
  
“Quinn?” She exclaims, the sight of her causing her heart to practically beat its way out, as if it wants to escape. “For the love of—you scared me!”   
  
Quinn wordlessly unhinges herself from the door, and it’s quite hard for Rachel to read the expression on Quinn’s face. It’s blank, yet something seems to be trying to break out of the stoic exterior, but whatever it is exactly, Quinn’s working so hard to tie  _it_ down.   
  
“I thought you’ve headed home with Santana,” Rachel brings up casually, but the fumbling step she takes back when Quinn takes one forth is enough of a sign to tell that she’s quite nervous.   
  
It’s not that she’s afraid of Quinn or anything, because she isn’t, really. But the kiss,  _their_ kiss isn’t something she can just ignore or put behind her either, not after it has turned out to be the only thing ever going to occupy her mind starting this day.   
  
She squares her shoulders upon seeing Quinn smirk, swallows deeply. “What brings you here to the choir room?”    
  
“How much have we raised up?” Quinn asks instead, blatantly ignoring the question.   
  
“I’m—“ Rachel curses under her breath, screws her eyes shut because Quinn’s standing so close to her now, and she’s got nowhere left to go. She’s trapped between the piano and Quinn’s towering height, and she thinks she’s never seen Quinn  _this_ tall, but then again, Quinn has never been this close. “I am not yet done with counting.”   
  
“Well, go finish it then.”   
  
“I—I can’t.”   
  
“Why not?” Quinn barks.   
  
Rachel wants to scream something about personal space and Quinn being too close. She wants to shout to Quinn’s face that she’s doing perfectly well, that  _they’re_ doing great as arch enemies actually, but Quinn  _has to_  ruin that because she  _has to_  be curious and change everything with one single kiss.   
  
“I just can’t okay?”   
  
She  _wants_ to hate Quinn, and the fact that Quinn’s making her feel this way. It’s one kiss, for goodness’ sake.   
  
“Didn’t Artie tell you how much? Surely he must’ve counted them before he left.”   
  
“Well if he had, I would have had an answer for you by now.”   
  
_Rachel_ , Quinn thinks, gets on her nerves most of the time. She really, really does. “Why are you being so difficult?”   
  
“I’m not,” Rachel gasps, clearly upset. “Why are you even here?”   
  
Frustrated, Quinn drops her Cheerio bag on the floor and throws the purse she’s clutching with her left hand, something Rachel hasn’t noticed earlier. It abruptly sails in the air while Rachel follows it with her eyes, landing on top of her notebook with a soft thud.    
  
“One hundred dollars,” Quinn says. “We lack a hundred to close the fund into one thousand. Artie told me.”   
  
Rachel opens her mouth to ask  _what_ Quinn is exactly trying to point out, because it doesn’t make sense at first. But as soon as things do, it closes on its own accord, and she’s left standing there with wide eyes.   
  
She doesn’t fight it though, nor echoes a protest when Quinn grabs her for a kiss.   
  
***   
  
Somehow, Rachel ends up sitting on top of the piano with Quinn standing in between her legs, their bodies practically pushed flushed against each other.   
  
It has never crossed Rachel’s mind that she’ll want to kiss someone this hard, that she’ll crave for someone’s lips this much. She has always thought that Finn’s always going to be her best kiss, what with all the romantic first kiss ideas she has filled her head with. It has  _never_ entered her mind that her _real_ best kiss would be with a girl, much less, with  _Quinn Fabray_ —the person who may or may not have made her high school life a living hell.   
  
But then, Quinn’s tugging at her lips with a certain  _need_ , Quinn’s fingers tangling with the locks of her hair like they suddenly have grown a mind of their own. Quinn’s moaning, and whimpering and breathing erratically, and Rachel thinks—knows that these sounds are the most beautiful ones she’s ever heard.   
  
***   
  
A dull thud breaks them apart, but even before Rachel can have the chance to check what caused the noise, Quinn’s already grabbing her and pulling her back, Quinn’s fists crumpling the front of her sweater.   
  
They don’t need words.   
  
In turn, Rachel just nods at Quinn when she looked uncertain, giving her permission to do it again. She leads Quinn’s left hand to her waist, lets it wrap around gently.   
  
They don’t need words, because  _their_ words just tend to ruin everything.   
  
***   
  
It’s a hundred dollars, Quinn thinks, o _ne hundred dollars_  she’s thrown in, and she needs to make it count; needs to make every second they spend be worthwhile. But a part of her knows that this is something rather priceless.   
  
***   
  
She’s not gay.   
  
No really, she isn’t. She’s just trying to help  _someone_ , a  _friend_ — _Rachel_ out. God wouldn’t be mad, because she’s doing a good act by helping. They need the money; Glee Club needs the one hundred dollars she’s saved for two weeks so they can have a shot at Nationals.   
  
God  _won’t_ be mad, because her  _dear Heaven, Rachel’s so freaking good_  aspect of a thought isn’t a lie. And neither is s _he has the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen_ . She’s telling the truth or at least thinking it—there’s no way she’ll say that out loud—and being honest is not a sin. God would be perfectly okay with it, since the ones He doesn’t like are those who lie. The saying even goes:  _Liars go to hell_ .   
  
She’s not gay. She just genuinely likes the way Rachel’s lips fits hers; just really, really likes how it feels to kiss Rachel this much, without  _anything_ sitting in between them to worry about.   
  
***   
  
She’s struggling to end an internal battle—is caught in between what she  _knows_ is right and what she _feels_ is right.   
  
At the back of her mind, she can hear her mother’s words, can hear her father’s teaching about God and how this is a horrible mistake. At the back of her mind, she can hear the things people in their community would say; can hear what Mrs. Lovett had whispered to Mrs. Thompson in disgust, about Mrs. Reed’s daughter who came out and brought a girl home for Christmas.    
  
Everything’s swirling inside her head: bible verses, testaments, the revolted look on her dad’s face; but they disappear altogether so quickly when Rachel moves her lips against hers.    
  
It’s supposed to be daunting, how she forgets everything she’s learned in her entire life with one quick swipe of Rachel’s tongue. It’s  _supposed_ to be, but the way Rachel wraps her small arms around her neck and pushes her body close to hers is making her want to believe that  _this_ is perfectly alright; that there’s nothing wrong with this.   
  
Rachel must’ve sensed the panic within her, must’ve tasted the fear in her lips, because she’s pulling apart and whispering softly into her ear. “Quinn, it’s alright. We’re the only ones in here.”    
  
She responds with a feverish kiss, the hand curled around Rachel’s waist instinctively squeezing tighter.   
  
“No one is going to know,” Rachel murmurs in between. “I promise.”   
  
Quinn stops to look at her, uncertainty quite evident in Quinn’s slightly hooded eyes, but then Rachel just presses their foreheads together; kisses the tip of her nose with painstaking affection. “You don’t have to be scared of anything. No one’s going to judge you. Not even me.”   
  
Quinn nods, in turn, and leans for another soft kiss. It’s enough, for now.   
  
*


End file.
